


be still, be calm, be quiet

by fatal_drum



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Sex, Body Horror, Cis Jonathan Sims, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Egg Laying, Fic Remix, M/M, Oral Sex, Sex Pollen, Trans Martin Blackwood, Vaginal Sex, Xeno, compulsion kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22407007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/pseuds/fatal_drum
Summary: The spiders have something to show Martin. All he has to do is follow the music...
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Spiders
Comments: 16
Kudos: 161





	be still, be calm, be quiet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cuttooth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Give Nature Her Ransom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20320384) by [cuttooth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth). 



> This fic is a remix of Cuttooth's wonderful fic, Give Nature Her Ransom. It was truly a pleasure paying tribute to one of my favorite authors in the fandom. Tooth was even kind enough to beta this piece. <3 
> 
> Title borrowed from The Cure's Lullaby.

Martin can't sleep because of the singing. He's been lying in his cot for nearly an hour, but the sound haunts him. It's completely unlike any music he’s ever heard, a melody no human could compose: the sound of chitinous limbs on gossamer, a sweet susurrus he’s only heard in dreams. But he isn't dreaming now.

Casting off his blanket, he rises to his feet. It’s warm in the Archives, so he’s only wearing his boxers and a worn Smiths t-shirt. There’s no one to see him pad through the darkened hallways, head tilted to the side as he tracks the strange melody. The music grows louder as he walks, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand upright, and the sweetness of it makes his vision blur with tears.

His feet lead him to the trapdoor in the Archives. It should be locked, but it opens easily, and the music grows louder than ever, reverberating through his chest. His skin prickles with gooseflesh. The music reaches something deep inside him, a place long dormant, touched by lullabies and Sunday masses. It calls to him, demanding worship and joy, promising safety and communion in exchange for his love.

The tunnels are pitch black, but he has no trouble descending the narrow steps. He shivers in the chill air, but the cold doesn’t matter to him, not now. He drifts through the twisted corridors, ignoring the way the stone scrapes against his bare feet. Somehow finds his way without having to think, choosing each turn instinctively. The gleam of gossamer in the corners tells him he’s getting closer. 

Finally he reaches his destination, and the music reaches a crescendo. He stands utterly still, awed by the sight before him. The chamber is enormous, easily a hundred meters across, with glittering webs stretched from end to end. In the center of the room sits an enormous spider on a dais. It’s larger than Martin, larger than any person, with limbs thicker than his arms, and a body covered in coarse black bristles. Eight glittering eyes regard Martin as it clicks its mandibles. The spider looks like nothing so much as a king on its throne. Martin can see others on the periphery, attending their webs, but he can’t see well enough to count them. 

The music has stopped. 

“Hello,” Martin say hesitantly. Now that he’s arrived, he’s feeling a bit foolish. How does one greet such a creature? Instinct tells him he should kneel, but he resists the urge. “I—I heard your song. It was beautiful.” 

The spider chitters at him, seemingly pleased. It creeps closer to him, then closer, seeming to grow larger with each step. Martin retreats unthinkingly, until he feels something hard and furry against his back and yelps, whirling around to see another spider. Before he can move, it lunges, sinking sharp fangs into the meat of his thigh. 

Martin yelps and falls to his knees, backing away frantically. Without the music to lull him, fear reasserts itself. The bite on his thigh pulses hotly, leaving numbness in its wake. 

“Please!” he begs. “I, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

The spider seizes hold of his arm, biting even deeper, and he feels its venom working through his veins, making him slow and fuzzy at the edges. He flails uselessly, and the creature shoves him to the ground, making his head collide hard with the stone floor. His skull throbs with pain, and he blinks back tears as a rough forelimb claws at his thighs.

“No!” he shouts, trying to get his limbs under him, but his body refuses to obey him, sagging uselessly against the floor. Something smooth wraps around his wrists, binding them overhead as his boxers are yanked down. He forces his eyes to focus, and then screams. 

The largest spider, the one he thinks of as their king, is poised above him. Extending from its abdomen is a thick appendage, dripping with milky fluid. His mind frantically tries to explain it away, but it’s impossible to think of it as anything other than a cock.  _ But spiders don’t mate like that,  _ some rational corner of his mind shouts. They use their pedipalps, they wouldn’t— 

But the spider king is lowering itself onto Martin, crushing him with its weight, and its cock is probing between his thighs. It’s thick, thicker than anyone he’s ever been with, and his heart races as it slides against his cunt. 

“No,  _ please—!” _ he cries, but it breaches him with the slick head of its cock, sliding slowly, inexorably deeper, until it’s in as far as it will go. The stretch is overwhelming, even with the fluid easing the way. He feels like he’s been flayed open, exposed for the world to see. His stomach roils with nausea. 

He sobs as it begins to thrust, mandibles clicking furiously. Its cock slides easily, Martin’s cunt sopping with its fluids, and heat begins to spread through him, making him tremble helplessly. 

“Please stop…” he begs, but the creature ignores his him, fucking him with a single-minded focus. Its thrusts shift just slightly, sending fire through his nerves, and he whines deep in his throat. 

Martin’s eyes squeeze shut as the creature moves faster. His thighs quiver as he feels himself tighten around its cock, growing closer and closer to the edge. He tries to steel himself against the arousal, but it thrusts into him relentlessly, over and over, until he bites his lip so hard it bleeds, and comes with a low whimper. 

The creature finishes soon after him, filling him with warm and viscous fluid that drips from his cunt. He shivers as it pools between his arse cheeks, still too weak to move. For a moment he wonders numbly if they’re going to eat him, before another spider approaches, knocking his thighs further apart and descending on him. He hisses with pain as it enters him—even with all the slickness, he’s still unused to being fucked so roughly, or by something so large. He wants to run, to fight, to do  _ anything,  _ but all he can do is lie there and take it, eyes squeezed shut as he waits for it to be over. 

Something wet brushes his mouth, and he gasps, eyes flying open. A furry abdomen hovers over his face. He barely has time to process what’s happening before there’s a cock in his mouth, coating his tongue with the same milky fluid. It’s strangely sweet on his tongue, and he swallows reflexively. A warm lassitude settles over his body, pooling between his thighs and making him moan around the cock in his mouth. He closes his lips around it and sucks helplessly. 

The spider thrusts into his throat, making him gag, but he finds himself straining to taste more of its nectar. Tears roll down his face as it continues to fuck his throat, cutting off his air. He wants to move, to scream, but he has no choice but to take it, even as he laps at its slick cock. 

His hips rock weakly against the spider fucking his cunt. It uses him at a punishing pace, forelimbs scratching his sides as it grips him. As if he could escape. Tension builds in his abdomen, spooling tighter and tighter, until he cries out and comes again, shuddering and soaking his thighs and his arse and the spider’s fur. He whimpers, humiliated. The spider above him chitters loudly, and its cock spasms in his throat, so deep he can’t even taste it. Shortly after, he feels a familiar spurt of wetness between his legs. 

_ Please let it be over,  _ he prays, even as a fourth spider rolls him onto his stomach. He barely has time to wonder what’s happening before he feels its slick cock prodding between his cheeks, leaving damp trails on his skin. 

“No...” he protests weakly, but it happens anyway, the thick, blunt head nudging his arsehole, pressing in until the muscle gives way, letting it fill him. His body is relaxed enough that it doesn’t hurt, but the intrusion feels  _ wrong,  _ and he sobs quietly, even as his body hums with arousal. His empty cunt aches and throbs, oozing come as the spider fucks him into the floor, grinding his cock against the cold stone. 

If he thought his mouth would get a break, he was wrong; one of them weaves more web around his chest, making a harness to pull him off the ground. The spider in his arse wraps its forelimbs around his waist as he’s lifted onto his knees, and soon another slimy cock brushes his cheek. He can’t even turn away; the spider slides in, and all he can do is swallow helplessly around the thick length. 

They use him for what seems like hours, filling his throat, his cunt, and his arse until he forgets what it was like to be anything but this: a puppet with cut strings, reduced to one humiliating purpose. He comes more times than he can count, until he’s wrung out, too exhausted to do more than shudder through each orgasm. His eyes are swollen from crying; his lips are cracked, and he can barely speak above a whisper. He’s filled with come until he thinks he might burst, his stomach so full it aches. 

His last thought before losing consciousness is that he hopes Jon doesn't come looking for him.

* * *

Martin wakes up feeling like he’s been hit by a lorry. It takes several minutes before he remembers where he is, and he whimpers, struck by a string of memories he prays were just a dream. Opening his eyes, he realizes he is alone; he might have thought he’d imagined it, if not for the taste in his mouth, and the many parts of him that ache. 

He stands up, and cringes at the feeling of fluid oozing down his thighs. He searches for his boxers, but they’re nowhere to be found. His shirt is oversized, but it barely grazes the tops of his thighs. He could keep looking, but there’s no way to know the spiders won’t return. 

Slowly and carefully, he picks his way back through the stone corridors. Every step makes him ache, a fresh reminder of what’s been done to him, and there are so many steps to take. He must have walked for longer than he realized, enthralled by the spiders’ song. 

He sighs when he makes it to the trap door. He’d been half afraid he would never find his way out. To his relief, the archive is still dark, though he’s not sure if that means it’s still the same night, or if he slept through the day as well. If so, he’ll have some very uncomfortable questions to answer. 

He makes it to his cot before he realizes he’s not alone. Jon is standing on the other side of the room, combing through a box of files. His face sharpens with worry when he catches sight of Martin. 

“Good lord, Martin, what—?”

Martin flinches, sitting abruptly on the cot and attempting to cover himself. That turns out to be a mistake—pain lances through his pelvis, making him gasp and curl in on himself. 

“Martin!”

Jon tilts his chin up, and Martin finds himself staring into dark, worried eyes. 

“What happened?”

“S-spiders—” he rasps, unable to stop himself. 

Jon’s eyes widen. His pupils are dilated, like glittering pools of ink, and Martin is utterly unable to look away.

“Did they hurt you?” Jon asks. “What did they do?”

“Please, don’t—”

“Martin, tell me.  _ Please.” _

Martin whimpers and stuffs his fist against his mouth, but the words come out anyway, all of them; he tells Jon about the music, and the trip through the tunnels, and the spiders. About being forced onto his back, legs splayed open, unable to resist as he was used over and over again. Tears stream down his face as he recounts the events, and his own shameful reaction to them. He finds himself squeezing his thighs together, filled with the memory of unwanted heat. 

“I don’t know what they wanted,” Martin says finally, wiping his face with the back of his hand. His hand comes away with half-dried, sticky white flakes, and he shudders. 

“I’m so sorry, Martin,” Jon murmurs, stroking his hair back from his face. The gesture is unexpected, but Martin leans into it gratefully. Jon’s touch makes his skin tingle, leaves him unsteady and craving more, but he’s already said too much, shown too much of himself, he can’t  _ do  _ this…

Jon’s voice is low and throaty as he promises, “I won’t let them hurt you again,” Warmth blooms between Martin’s legs and crawls up his spine, leaving him loose-limbed and wanting. He whines low in his throat, turning his face away from Jon’s scrutiny, but Jon cups his chin, tilting his head back up. “What’s wrong?”

“I,” he pants, squirming in his seat. “I need…” 

“What do you need?” Jon asks softly. _“_ _ Tell me,  _ Martin.” 

The compulsion hits Martin hard, makes him moan out loud. “I need you to touch me,” he confesses, squirming so his cock rubs between his legs. “God, Jon, please…”

Jon bites his lip, looking uncertain. “Are—are you sure?” 

All Martin can say is, _ “Yes…” _

Jon pushes him down to lie on the cot, tracing clever fingers down Martin’s chest. His touch strikes sparks in its wake as he strokes down, down,  _ down, _ finally lifting the hem of Martin’s shirt to stroke his slick and swollen folds. 

“Jon…” he sighs, spreading his legs instinctively. He almost feels like he could come just from that touch. 

Jon makes a startled sound, pressing harder, until his fingertips brush Martin’s entrance. 

“You’re so  _ wet,”  _ Jon says, eyes wide with wonder. “Are you always—?” 

“When I think of you, yes,” Martin confesses, flushing. 

Jon rewards him by plunging two fingers inside. It hurts, after being taken so roughly, but Martin’s hips push against his hand, a silent plea for more. He whines when Jon slips a third finger in. 

“Please, Jon, please—” 

Martin pulls Jon down on top of him, and Jon grinds against his thigh. Martin realizes with a shock that he’s hard. He fumbles for Jon’s trousers. Some distant part of him knows this isn’t right, that this isn’t what he should want right now, what  _ either  _ of them should want, but it’s easily drowned out by the heat in his veins, the yawning emptiness that screams to be filled. Jon’s cock is hot and firm in his hand, the skin velvet soft as he strokes it. Jon makes a punched-out noise, rocking against him, and Martin’s body hums with satisfaction. 

“Can I—?” Jon breaks off, whimpering as Martin’s fingers find a sensitive spot. “I want—”

_ “Yes,”  _ Martin says helplessly. 

Jon withdraws his fingers, and Martin guides him into his entrance, gasping as he slowly sinks inside. Martin wraps his legs around Jon’s waist to draw him deeper, craving the heat and weight of his body. 

Jon fucks him with an intensity that makes Martin shiver all over, eyes fixed on Martin’s face as he drives into him. Martin can scarcely breathe except for short, involuntary gasps, forced out of him with each thrust. They don’t kiss, or even really touch, except where their bodies are pressed together, and Jon’s hands are clutching his arms. 

“I’ll keep you safe,” Jon pants, staring into his eyes as he thrusts. “Keep you with me—no one can hurt you—” 

_ "Jon," _ Martin moans. The possessiveness is unexpected; it strikes something in the core of Martin, makes him feel coveted, prized, treasured. He’s not used to being wanted, but it’s  _ want  _ that shines at him through Jon’s eyes as he lays claim to Martin’s body. “I’m gonna—”

_ “Do it, come for me—”  _

Martin shudders as the orgasm rips through him, making his whole body clench around Jon, his arms and his legs and his cunt gripping him tight, until Jon spills inside him with a low cry, adding to the sopping mess between his thighs. 

Afterwards Jon lays his head on Martin’s chest, drowsing. Martin barely has the energy to pull the blanket over them. He can feel Jon’s cock softening inside him. They lie there for a long while, Martin stroking Jon’s back, until they catch their breath.

“Jon,” he says softly. “What just happened?”

“I—I don’t know,” Jon admits, burying his face in Martin’s chest. “I. It must be something in their venom, or—I. I’m so sorry.”

Martin can feel Jon’s breaths growing fast and panicked, and he shushes him, stroking his hair. “You shouldn’t feel guilty,” he says. “I begged you for it.”. 

“You were under their influence,” Jon argues. “I should have kept a clearer head.” 

“Because you’re some sort of expert on—whatever this is?”

Jon is silent for a moment, before looking back into Martin’s eyes. 

"Are you—alright, though? Did I hurt you?" 

"I—well, I’m a bit sore, but…" Martin bites his lip. "It’s fine."

"I still shouldn't have—"

"Jon," he says forcefully. "It's  _ fine.  _ We were both under the influence, and…” He bites his lip, lowering his voice as he adds, “...it’s not the first time I’ve...wanted you.”

“Oh,” Jon says, flushing deeply. 

It takes a few minutes to disentangle themselves and dress. Jon insists on taking them both to his place. Martin can’t argue; he’s not sure he can sleep in the Archives again, not with the tunnels just beneath. The cab ride is tense and silent. 

Jon’s apartment is almost exactly what he expected: cramped, and piled high with books and knick-knacks, souvenirs of times Martin was never a part of and never will be. He tries not to stare too openly. Jon leads him into the bathroom. 

“You said they bit you,” he says. “Will you let me see?”

Martin will let Jon see whatever he wants, if he asks. He’s fully aware of this as he undresses without ceremony, piling his clothes on a chair. The flesh around the bites is tender, making him wince when Jon touches him, though Jon’s hands are gentle.. 

“We don’t want these getting infected,” Jon says. “We should get you washed off.” 

Jon rolls up his sleeves and guides Martin into the shower. There are two shower heads, an unexpected luxury. He lets the first rain down on him while Jon uses the other to gently rinse the bites. The wounds throb whenever Jon touches them, and to Martin’s shame, the pain goes straight to his cunt, making him squirm. Thankfully Jon doesn’t seem to notice. Afterwards, Jon dries him off with a surprisingly plush towel, then applies antiseptic to the bites. 

“You’re doing very well,” Jon praises, and warmth blooms in Martin’s chest. 

Jon glances downward, eyes settling between Martin’s legs. “Did they...do you need a doctor?”

“I—I don’t think so,” Martin says, biting his lip. “I’m sore, but it’s not—I’m sure it’s fine.”

“I could have a look,” Jon says carefully. 

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I’d feel better knowing you’re alright.”

There’s a shower stool in the corner. Martin sits on it while Jon kneels before him, peering between his thighs. He leans close, so close Martin can feel his breath on his skin. 

“You’ve got some bruising,” Jon says finally, “But no visible tears. I can’t speak for the inside, though. May I...?”

Martin nods, and Jon carefully parts his folds, sliding a careful finger into him. Martin bites down on a gasp as Jon strokes his walls, searching for signs of a tear. His finger comes away dripping white. Martin can’t say for sure whether it’s from Jon or the spiders. 

“There. No lasting damage.” Jon says. To Martin’s surprise, Jon’s breathing as hard as he is, hands shaking as he inspects the white fluid. 

“Jon, what’s wrong?” 

Jon backs away abruptly, swallowing. 

“I...it seems I’m still feeling the effects of the, er. Pheromones.” 

Martin glances down to see Jon’s trousers are tented. His stomach clenches with  _ want.  _ He crouches down to kiss Jon, pushing him to the floor so he can straddle him. 

“You can say no,” Martin says, working open his belt. Once he’s got his trousers open, he gives Jon a squeeze, making him moan. 

“I don’t want to say no,” Jon confesses, bucking into his grip. “But do you—?”

Martin grinds down, sliding his wet cunt against Jon’s cock. 

“Does it feel like I want to say no?”

Jon swallows hard, shaking his head, and Martin sinks down onto his cock. The penetration stings a little, but he needs so badly to be filled, to be  _ fucked,  _ and Jon’s making the sweetest noises for him, needy whimpers and punched-out gasps.

“Need to fill you up,” Jon moans, gripping his hips tightly. “Protect you, protect the little ones—”

Martin barely registers Jon’s words, caught up in the smooth slide of their bodies, the pleasure building inside him, making his movements fast and desperate. He covers Jon’s mouth with his own, wet and messy, grinding his cock against Jon’s body. 

“I’m gonna come,” he gasps against Jon’s lips, so turned on he can barely stand it. It only takes a few more thrusts for him to make good on his promise, spurting gouts of fluid all over Jon’s clothes, spasming around Jon’s cock. “Don’t stop, don’t stop—”

Jon rolls them so he’s on top, hips pumping desperately, and Martin comes again almost immediately, so hard he nearly screams. Finally Jon bites down on his shoulder, body going rigid and still as he spills deep inside him. Martin’s shoulder throbs, a satisfying ache. 

Before Jon can make it awkward, Martin pulls him down for a kiss. This one is softer than before, a gentle press of lips with the slightest hint of tongues. He clenches around Jon’s softening cock, drawing an overstimulated moan from his throat. 

Jon lays his head against Martin’s shoulder, panting. “We may need to call in.” 

* * *

Martin finds himself incredibly hungry afterwards. He yearns for iced cakes and pastries stuffed with cream; fat strawberries and round, juicy grapes; bowls of chocolate ice cream dripping with syrup. Unfortunately, Jon has none of these things; his cupboards are nearly bare, and his fridge mostly contains condiments. Martin rubs his aching belly as he frowns into the freezer. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon says. “I don’t usually have a lot of guests.”

“What have you been eating?” Martin asks. He has a sneaking suspicion he already knows the answer. 

Jon winces. “...whatever I can scrounge from the vending machines?”

“Oh, for god’s sake—”

In the end, Jon goes to the shops, refusing Martin’s offer to pay or go with him. Instead Jon insists he stay in bed and recover, and the look on his face shows he’ll brook no argument. So instead, Martin makes a nest out of the blankets on Jon’s bed and tries to satisfy himself with a cup of tea and some crackers, then attempts to sleep. By all rights he should be exhausted, but he’s just hungry and restless. 

After ten minutes of this, he sighs and gets out of bed, pacing Jon’s apartment. He takes a book at random from Jon’s shelf, flipping through it before setting it back down. He tries three more books before giving up and turning on the telly.    
  
After twenty minutes, he starts checking his phone, anxious for updates from Jon. He finds himself roaming the flat, checking the door and windows to ensure they’re locked, then checking them again. The silence of the apartment weighs down on him. He tries playing music on his phone, but the sound of the tinny little speaker unnerves him. 

Finally the front door opens, and he springs to his feet, ready to flee. He relaxes when he catches sight of Jon, and judging by Jon’s expression, the feeling is mutual. 

“I’m so sorry that took so long,” Jon says, setting down the groceries. “There was a crowd, and—”

He stops with a soft  _ oof  _ as Martin sweeps him into his arms, hugging him tightly. He’s not sure when he started trembling. After a moment, Jon returns the embrace. One of his hands rests on Martin’s stomach. 

“What’s happening to us?” Martin asks quietly. 

“More pheromones, I’m afraid,” Jon says. “It seems we’re meant to keep you hidden, and safe, and…”

“Well fed,” Martin says flatly.

“Yes,” Jon answers, his voice a hoarse whisper. 

Martin looks down at Jon’s hand on his belly. His body doesn’t look any different than usual, but the thought that he’s hosting these—these  _ parasites— _ it’s like Jane Prentiss all over again. His mind flits back to images of cork screws, the months of nightmares about worms in his skin. He shudders.

“Jon, I’m scared,” he whispers. 

“It’s alright,” Jon tells him, holding him close. “I’ll take care of you.” 

* * *

The next few days pass in a blur. Martin spends a great deal of time sleeping. Sometimes he dreams he’s on his back on a cold stone floor, trapped like a fly in a web. Jon always seems to know when his dreams have been difficult, because he holds Martin gently afterwards. Martin is not a small man, but Jon makes him feel safe. He and Jon are still intimate, many times, even as Martin’s belly swells, and Jon has to find new positions to accommodate him. Neither of them discuss what is going to happen, or what they will do afterwards.

One morning Martin wakes with a cramp in his abdomen, and they know it’s time. Jon helps him into the bathtub, setting cushions around him so he can lie comfortably. 

“You’re doing so well,” Jon praises, holding his hand as the pressure builds and builds inside him, until it finally bursts. Martin feels something slick work its way out of his cunt, until it falls with a wet sound. The feeling makes him shudder. Jon lifts the thing in his hands: an egg, translucent and round and slightly gelatinous. He can just barely make out the shape of tiny, delicate limbs. Martin stares in horror as his body prepares for the next.

The second egg comes easier, followed quickly by a third and a fourth. He can’t believe there were so many inside him. The sensation never stops being strange, but it’s...bearable. He’d been half afraid his offspring would tear their way from his belly like some sort of horror film. 

Jon’s eyes stay on Martin as he adds to the growing clutch. Martin should probably be embarrassed, but there’s no judgment in his expression. The birthing continues for what seems like hours, until he’s left with a much flatter stomach and a sizeable mound of eggs. 

“I can’t believe these were all in me,” he says, touching one. The surface is slick and smooth, with just a bit of give. 

“They’re beautiful,” Jon says softly. 

Martin’s chest swells with pride. 

They gently rinse the eggs before bringing them to the bed and piling them into a divot they’ve made in the blankets. Martin curls around the makeshift nest, and Jon curls around him before they finally sleep, satisfied. 

* * *

Over the next day, the eggs grow firmer and more opaque. Jon and Martin can hardly stand to be parted from them for more than a few moments, and they never leave at the same time. They take to eating light meals in the bedroom, sat on either side of the nest. 

The eggs hatch while they’re sleeping. They wake up with nothing to show for their experience but a pile of broken shells. Jon holds Martin as he stares at the empty spot where their brood was, trying to process what just happened to them. 

“Do you think we should have...stopped them?” Martin asks, burying his face in Jon’s chest. He feels hollow inside, like he’s been opened up and scraped clean. In a way, maybe he has. 

“I don’t think we could have,” Jon says. “We’ve hardly been in control of ourselves these past few days.” 

“We are  _ now,  _ though,” Martin says, half statement, half question. 

Jon kisses his forehead. “We are.”

Warmth suffuses Martin’s chest, and he tightens his arms around Jon. 

“I’d like to think they have something of you in them,” Jon continues, stroking his back. “And if that’s the case…I don’t think I could have hurt them, even knowing what they are.”

“We don’t have to go back to the Institute yet, do we?”

“Not yet,” Jon says. 

Martin leans up to kiss him, soft and exploratory, and Jon’s hands stroke his hair. 

“I feel like we skipped a few steps.” 

“We did,” Jon agrees. “Would you...like to start over?”

“I would,” Martin confirms. “But not today. I’m a bit knackered right now.” 

“Likewise.”

Martin suspects they’ll both need a  _ lot  _ of therapy after this, but for now, it’s enough to have Jon by his side, a warm and constant weight. He lets sleep fall over him, and doesn’t dream at all. 


End file.
